The oliphants shrieked again, a higher note than the brass horns the Boise men used, and the men-at-arms backed their horses and turned, cantering out of catapult range and then walking their mounts; infantry couldn't force horsemen to fight if they didn't want to. When they were a thousand yards away they turned and waited; he could see ambulances coming forward for their wounded, and Remounts. Goddamn them, they've still got fresh destriers ready! They must have been breeding and training them ever since the Change; it'd cost a fortune.
Boise's light horse were trying to re-form their tattered screen between his flank and the Portlander lancers. His head swiveled eastward, ahead. There his men had been steadily chewing their way through the Portland Protective Association's infantry, like a saw through hard wood… but they'd had to halt while he refused the flank to take the attack of the heavy horse.
Now the enemy foot were backing, breaking contact, still with a disciplined bristle of spears over the kite-shaped shields; blocks of crossbowmen were between them, retreating by files. The men at the head of each rank of six fired their weapons and then turned and walked backwards to the end of the column, pumping the cocking lever set into the forestocks of their crossbows as they went. The man behind them shot and then followed, reloading as well… Thurston's men crouched behind their heavy shields against the continuous flickering ripple of bolts; the sound was a steady thock-thock-thock; mostly the big shields stopped the short heavy missiles. Mostly, but a steady trickle were falling limp or screaming or staggering backwards towards the medics, and the Portlanders were too far away now for his men to reply with thrown pila.
He looked southward, to the section of the allied line on his left: the pikes of the Pendleton city militia wavered as they advanced, and he suspected that the glaives of the Registered Refugee Regiment at their backs had a good deal to do with the fact that they were still moving forward. A trio of six-pound iron balls blurred into them from the enemy catapults, bouncing forward at knee-height, and a whole six-man file went down screaming, their eighteen-foot weapons collapsing like hay undercut by a mowing machine.
A heavy tung-tung-tung-tung sound came through the screams, as one of his own batteries replied with globes of napalm, the burning fuses drawing black smoke-trails through the air and then blossoming into blurred flowers of yellow gold as they landed and shattered. The pump teams behind the field pieces worked like maniacs to drive water through the armored hoses to the hydraulic jacks built into the frames, and the throwing arms bent back against the resistance of the heavy springs.
The enemy catapults were already moving back, though-he could see their crews trotting beside the wheels of the field pieces. They'd hitched their teams, and were stopping only when the auxiliary pumps attached to the axles had cocked the mechanisms. Then they'd let the trail fall from the limber, slap a bolt or ball into the groove and fire and snatch it up again to make another bound backwards. A four-foot javelin from one of them went over his head with a malignant whirrrt, making him duck involuntarily. There was an appalling wet smack behind him; he turned and saw that the bolt had pinned the body of his dead horse to the ground.
Hooves thudded behind him. The messenger from his cavalry commander had a crudely splinted left arm, and her dark olive skin was muddy with pain and the exhaustion that grooved her face. She saluted smartly, though:
"Sir! Colonel Jacobson reports that he regretfully cannot slow any further charges by the Portlander lances. Sir…" Her voice changed. "Sir, they just have too much weight of metal for us to stop them. Not face-to-face without room to maneuver."
Thurston nodded. "Get that arm seen to, Sergeant Gonzalez," he said. "No return message."
Then he looked up at the sun. It was three o'clock at least…
And I am not going to try to pursue in the dark, with the cavalry we probably have left.
Another pair of horsemen approached…
No, goddammit, it's Estrellita Peters and her spawn, come to waste time I don't have!
They were both in breastplates and helmets, at least, and there were a dozen of their slave-guardsmen around them. The boy was pale but determined, gulping at his first exposure to the atmosphere of a battlefield-a cross between a construction site, an open sewer, and a neglected butcher's shop on a really hot day, seasoned with men sobbing or shrieking or calling for their mommas as their ruins were dragged back to the aid stations. The Bossman's consort was as calm with edged steel whickering through the air as she'd been in her own parlor greeting her guests. At least she wasn't trying to play General
…
"We are forcing them back, Senor Presidente!" she said.
Thurston nodded curtly. And paying far too much of a butcher's bill for it, he thought; the loss of every man hurt, and from his own ever-loyal Sixth doubly.
"We'll hold the field," he said, his voice a grim bark. "And they'll leave your territory. Now, if you'll pardon me-"
The boy spoke, and there was a disturbing flash in his brown eyes: "The Prophet has foretold victory!"
Thurston nodded curtly again. And I could do the same, he thought; for a wonder Estrellita showed some tact, and pulled the boy aside.
Martin went on: "Courier! Get south and find out what's the hell's happening on our left flank! And tell the Corwinite commander"- damned if I'll be polite at this late date! -"that unless he can turn their flank soon, a general pursuit is out of the question."
Then to his signalers: "Sound the advance!"
The tubae brayed like mules in agony, a long sustained note that meant get ready and then three sharp blats. With a unison that shook the earth the battalions stepped off, moving forward at a steady jog-trot, shields up and pila cocked back to throw. Astonishingly they began to sing as well, a raucous marching chant timed to the pounding beat of the advance:
"Yanks to the charge! cried Thurston
The foe begins to yield!
Strike-for hearth and nation
Strike-for the Eagle shield!-"
"By God, with men like these, I'll whip the Earth!" Thurston said, and drew his own blade.
It would come to that for the commanders, before the sun set.
"Plant the swine feathers!" Chuck Barstow Mackenzie rasped.
His voice was hoarse with the dust, raw with shouting. The signal blatted out, and the mass of kilted archers stopped their jog-trot to the rear. Each of them turned, jammed the shovel end of the weapon into the ground, backheeled it to plant it, and then took a few steps backwards as they reached over their shoulders for arrows-they were down to the quivers on their backs now, no time for spares to be brought forward. Westward the dimly seen ridge they'd abandoned suddenly quivered and sparkled; the sun was behind the Clan's warriors now, and it broke off the edged metal of the blades there, and on arrowheads.
"Let the gray geese fly- shoot! "
The yew bows bent and spat; this was close range, barely fifty yards. You could only just see an arrow from a heavy bow as a flicker through the air that close, and it was only a half second later that the first struck. Men and horses went down; and this time they reined around and fled, back below the swell of ground that would put them out of sight. Only a few kept coming towards the Mackenzie line, a handful of them screaming out:
"Cut! Cut! Cut!"
They galloped along the Mackenzie front, lofting arrows towards their foes and dying as picked shots stepped out of the Clan's ranks to take careful aim.
Chuck dismissed them from his mind. The ones who'd sensibly dodged back behind the protection of the ridgeline were the ones he was worried about; there were a lot more of them: